


Thank You

by Hambone



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Guro, M/M, Non-standard Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 20:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16374581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hambone/pseuds/Hambone
Summary: Lautrec has to deal with Oscar before Oscar deals with him. Then he takes some time to enjoy it.





	Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> I had no idea how to properly tag this to just keep in mind it's entirely 100% about intestines. Originally Lautrec was fucking a rando but Oscar is my waifu so plans changed. 
> 
> Enjoy!

    “What h-have you done…?”

    Lautrec didn’t answer the question, because it was a stupid one. Oscar was strong, too strong to bother with alone, so he had snuck up on the poor fool. It was easy enough to do, for the man was still not recovered from his shock, the young woman’s corpse only a few feet away. He’d known Oscar, with his head so full of nobility, would come after him in time, once he’d found her, and he wasn’t about to let that happen on Oscar’s terms. If he were to be fought, it would be in a rather less than sporting way, but one did what one must to survive out here.

    The odious little man who had previously spent all his time snooping around the bonfire had finally scuttled off somewhere, leaving the perfect host of secret spots he could wait in until Oscar returned and descended the stairs. It was not his usual desired approach, as resorting to the tricks of a petty thief was unbefitting of a holy knight, but whatever got the job done. Once his friend had disappeared down the track, Lautrec had crept to the ledge above and watched him discover the dead Firekeeper before he struck, leaping with the grace of a panther to slice a clean line through Oscar’s belly. He was honestly surprised it had worked, even counting upon the emotional distraction, but pleased nonetheless as his shotel bit easily through chainmail and muscle.

    He slid to a stop, dragging one blade through the dirt to stead himself, prepared to strike again. Oscar had his sword drawn so quickly he would have found himself skewered any other time, but he’d done good work. As Oscar turned, trying to pull a stance, he could see that the knight’s shield arm was wrapped around his belly, red intestine spilling past his glove. All that pretty blue and gold embroidery, gone to waste. Lautrec disliked the idea of it being scavenged and sold off by those unworthy, and considered how he would dispose of the body. At the very least Oscar deserved better than the woman in the cage, to whom he would give no burial. He had been a loyal partner, if grossly naïve to the way of things. Men from Astora always were a bit thick, blood muddied by leisure.

    “I would have offered you to split the spoils, should it keep you happy,” Lautrec said, carefully circling, “but I believe we both know better than that.”

    Oscar staggered, breath heavy behind his helm.

    “She did you no harm.”

    “Indeed,” Lautrec shrugged, “but she had something I need.”

    He was, despite himself, nervous. Oscar was still hunched over, definitely not long for this world, but his stance was strong, as was the grip with which he held his blade. He was no knight of a fallen legion, no head heavy prince out looking for adventure or zealot trying to find new religion. Oscar was a self-made man, as Lautrec recognized and respected, even if he were a fool.

    “You know that I will come for you yet,” said Oscar, his voice ever soft. It really grated Lautrec’s nerves.

    “Ah, but you’d have to find me first.”

    Oscar sighed.

    “I did think I was right to call you a friend, even when I knew better in my heart.”

    He shook his head.

    “I pray that when we next meet, your goddess proves herself kind.”

    He lunged. Lautrec had been waiting for this and yet still wasn’t ready, throwing himself out of the way only quickly enough to avoid certain death. The straight sword sheered through his special gauntlet with ease, cutting a nasty gash from wrist to bicep. Snarling in pain, Lautrec kept his shotel in hand but only just, immediately having to fling himself away again as Oscar’s next blow landed inches from his skull. The sword instead caught one of the prongs of his helm’s crown, the symbol of his place in the heavens, bending the metal so off kilter its bolts came loose, nearly tearing it from his helm.

    Lautrec stumbled a bit, caught himself. He whipped around, but Oscar was on his knees now, sword stabbed into the ground like a walking stick, trying to keep stable. More of his gut was coming loose, and at this distance Lautrec could really smell it, that grim scent of blood and stomach. A thrill lanced his veins, quickened his heartbeat. Watching as Oscar tried to stand once more, only to fall again, Lautrec straightened his spine, flicking his wounded wrist in a quick splatter of blood.

    “Such a boast.”

    Oscar coughed.

    “You knew you’d killed me already.”

    Tutting, Lautrec shifted both shotel to one hand so as to gesture widely.

    “And yet you refuse to die!”

    He laughed good-naturedly, as friends do, while Oscar wheezed. The knight’s hold on his weapon was slipping, his body inching closer to the earth with each passing second. Lautrec could see red flecking his scarf, the holes in his helm, and another bolt of heat inflamed his sex.

    “Do you repay all kindnesses shown to you in such a manner, or have I done something to deserve your ire?”

    It was amazing he could still form a coherent sentence, much less keep the frame of mind to scold. Lautrec was surprised more and more by this young man every time they met. He crossed his arms before his chest, his embracement giving him the appearance of a many limbed beast as he stood with the sun at his back. Oscar finally dropped away from the sword hilt, clutching his innards tightly.

    “Dear me, you _are_ angry! That vigor for life is why I liked you, I suppose. To be honest, I liked you far better than most of the idiots who wander this place,” Lautrec said. Not missing a beat, Oscar looked up at him.

    “Then make my death a swift one.”

    “Oh, is to suffer too undignified for one such as yourself?”

    He laughed again. Oscar said nothing, perhaps ashamed, perhaps annoyed, perhaps merely dumb with pain. It was a particularly nasty way to go. Lautrec knew the experience. He’d torn at his own guts to quicken it, bored with agony, bored with the process of rebirth. He didn’t know how old Oscar truly was, how many times he had died, but he knew it mustn’t be too foreign a torture to him either.

    “You misunderstand,” he continued, “I let you die slowly as a reward, a thanks, one might say, for having assisted me before.”

    “H-how?”

    He was still angry, but he was fading. No longer afraid, but still cautious, Lautrec crept closer, until his toes met the growing lake of blood Oscar knelt in. Oscar did reach for his sword again but too slow, fumbling, and Lautrec kicked it away in a shower of dirt.

    “Well, I’ll just have to show you, won’t I?”

    Oscar swayed, looking up at him. Though he could not see what expression lay behind the cold steel, he could imagine it clearly, that familiar loose jaw, nostrils flared, his eyes pink with blood. Oscar was likely a very pretty boy, at least for their type. He has a strong body, big thighs, and he carried himself well. He had plenty of time to strip him, should he so choose, but something inside him preferred they kept their respective masks. He had known Oscar as a knight of Astora, after all, and that was the image he wanted to keep.

    Another kick sent Oscar reeling with a gasp, and then Lautrec grabbed the front of his helm in one hand and knelt all at once, slamming Oscar onto his back with practiced ease. Oscar hacked and blood sprayed from his breathing slits. He swung a heavy punch at Lautrec’s shoulder, but, while it did hurt some, it lacked his normal skill and strength, and only just shook him through the plate mail. That was all he could muster, and he fell onto his back, chest heaving. By now the red from his ruined insides had colored all the way up to the neck of his tunic, beginning to nibble the ragged ends of his scarf, and it stuck to his chest. It accentuated the swell of his breast nicely, even with his chain behind it, and Lautrec boldly slid his gloved hand through the mess to rest above his heart and feel it rattling its cage.

    “You always were a good one, Oscar,” Lautrec sighed pleasantly, “too good. It’s naïve fools like you that make this world easy for me.”

    Oscar lay and did not fight him. He considered cutting away more of Oscar’s clothing, laying him fully bare and taking him time to explore, but life was a fleeting thing and he had really done his job well. Oscar’s blood was already pooling around them both, shining brilliantly on Lautrec’s golden shell. He felt Fina’s arms tighten around his chest approvingly.

    Seemingly accepting death now, Oscar lay placid as Lautrec knelt above him, feeling him. His hands still clutched his spilling gut, though he resisted only marginally as Lautrec brushed them aside. The intestine was always a sight, and Oscar’s no different. Soft, pink, wet, inherently sexual. Lautrec shed his gauntlets quickly, then gloves, not caring to hide his excitement at this point. Oscar was hardly aware of his own self now, not looking, breath coming in hard gasps. That was, until Lautrec slowly pressed his palms into the cavern of his belly.

    Oscar jerked up, inadvertently worsening the pain, crying wetly.

    “Ah- you-!”

    He couldn’t speak, drained of blood and life and belief in human decency. Lautrec shuddered, grinning uncontrollably. Oscar’s stomach was warm and writhing, the muscle trying to pull him back together in vain around his intruding hands. There was such pleasure in feeling the true essence of humanity as it lived and breathed, every organ expanding and contracting, still working feverishly as he died. Even in his ecstasy Lautrec was careful, unwilling to end his pleasure prematurely, and he stroked the delicate membranes with the utmost gentleness. It was incredible how soft he was here, like spider silk. Lautrec moaned harshly, spittle falling to puddle inside his mask.

    “Why?” Oscar pleaded, “What?” his hands weakly finding Lautrec’s wrists and hanging on, for he could muster no strength to do anything else. It hurt immensely, horrifyingly, and even now, even after what had transpired, he could not wrap his brain around the fact that this man was willing to torture him so intimately, for no reason but pleasure alone. If there was anything Oscar could have given him, anything, any cornerstone of his being that would sate Lautrec now, he would have willingly parted with it to end this.

    “Please don’t-!”

    Lautrec sat back on his haunches, reluctantly pulling his hands away. Oscar’s guts were spread out in small ringlets about his gaping wound now, little halos above his pulsating organs. His cock was so hard behind his skirting that it was difficult to free, popping out of his leggings painfully when he pulled them away. Oscar couldn’t see over his own chest, perhaps relieved, basking in the tiny respite. Relishing in that calm as well, Lautrec gazed down at him, and it was when his blood slicked hands wetly began to pull along his erection that Oscar seemed to realize something was amiss.

    “Lautrec, please…” he said, so tired now that his voice was barely a whisper, “I- I trusted you…”

    “That was your mistake, not mine.”

    He reached back inside Oscar and the knight cringed away, moaning pitifully as Lautrec gathered up a small handful of his intestine.

    “I liked you, Oscar,” he said again, sighing in anticipation, “and you will never forget it.”

    Pulling them together, he wound a length of Oscar’s intestine around his shaft. Though he could not see, Oscar knew, terribly, what was happening, and he vomited blood. Lautrec could see it happening, the sharp contraction of his guts, the red movement. He growled and Oscar choked, unable to turn away to keep his bile from returning down his throat to his lungs. Oscar was so hot inside, hotter than any whore’s clunge, and Lautrec was careful to fist his gut in a manner gentle enough to never break it, even as he pulled it along his cock, keeping the skin together. This was a true power, to fuck the very life of a man. Fina kissed along his jawline.

    It was quiet there, in the muddy grass by the dead Firekeeper’s cage. No birds sang, no Hollows muttered. Lautrec knelt over Oscar now so their faces, covered but aware, almost met, an intimate pose few others were granted the grace of seeing. His hand steadying them, Lautrec fucked into Oscar’s belly, into the snake like coil of his organs, and all Oscar could do was weep quietly. How could any man take pleasure from this? Even the monsters below had not enjoyed his suffering so much. What hope did any of them have when this was what was left of humanity?

    Lautrec grunt and sweat under the weight of his armor, holding himself on one arm while the other cradled Oscar’s insides to him. he’d gotten so close from the excitement already, feeling Oscar clench and squirm around him, or perhaps that was all in his mind, intoxicated with the hard scent of blood that turned copper in his mouth, made his eyes water. He wanted to lick it, bury his muzzle inside him and devour Oscar alive. He couldn’t stop his hips, uncaring of pace, pattern, thrusting like a mindless beast into carnage. Oscar must have torn now, he was too rough, kneading the delicate tissue into mash around his twitching cock, but he didn’t stop, didn’t care.

    When he came his hand squeezed so tightly it even hurt himself, and Oscar let out an awful, trembling death rattle. It must have hurt terribly. Lautrec’s cock spasmed in his hand, white spunk lost amidst a sea of gore. He pushed both hands to the ground beside Oscar’s helm and stuck his cock in unaided, thrusting his orgasm into the mess like a rutting dog. Crouched above his kill, he wondered humorously if he were not much better. Fina whispered that he was not, and pressed against his back, warm.

    He stood and his front was covered in Oscar. It would take a while to clean, another proof of how Oscar had remained with him. Now that Oscar was dead, though, he would need to vacate the area, and quickly. He did not take for granted the thread he’d been issued. He dug through Oscar’s soaked bags, finding little of use (a crushed root in a paper, some dark colored sap, a lock of golden hair tied with rough twine), too satiated to be frustrated by the lack of spoils. After all, he still had taken the prize he’d really sought.

    Oscar was laid to rest somewhere below the fog, a secret to even Lautrec, who pushed him over the cliff’s edge. Better there than here, picked over by scavengers and merchants. The forests below were untouched by man and all his plagues. Pocketing the root, Lautrec decided to slip down the other side of the mountain, avoiding the bonfire and those who sought it, just in case. If he were lucky, he might run into any number of other friends he had made while here, all with their own uses, all with their own scraps of humanity. The prospect pulled his chin high, and any man who saw him would know with just a glance that he was in love.


End file.
